


Watson, John Watson: MI6

by phqyd_roar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, BAMF John, Fluff, Humor, Love at First Sight, M/M, Romance, Top John, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-29 01:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phqyd_roar/pseuds/phqyd_roar
Summary: AU- Five years before ASiP, John Watson takes a promotion transferring him to the British Secret Services. His hopes of battling terrorists and defending homeland security are dashed when he is assigned to protect the head of MI6's drug-addicted, posh twat of a younger brother. Things get a bit out of hand after that.Featuring:flustered!love at first sight!young!virgin!SherlockBAMF!oblivious!secretly dorky!outwardly stoic!Captain Watsonscheming!omniscient!Mycroft





	1. Mr. Posh Twat

**Author's Note:**

> I read a one-shot a while ago featuring a completely flustered Sherlock who blotches the first meeting at the lab with John because he was hit with a tranquilizer dart from Cupid's bow. I adored it, and I need to see more of this adorably flustered Sherlock, so here he is with my BAMF-y, MI6 bodyguard John.
> 
> Apologies in advance for my utter lack of knowledge in how MI6 operates, possible Hollywood physics and medical science, and John's 007 obsession.

Captain John Watson’s first assignment in his new capacity as a MI6 agent was to rescue some cushy politician’s snotty little brother from a drug den. John was sad. Despite reaching the ripe old age of thirty this year, he was honestly naive enough to have thought that he would be battling terrorists, at least, if not doing even more 007 stuff. This was more boring than Helmand. He should have given more thought before jumping up in excitement when he was told he was being offered a transfer to the British Secret Services. 

His charge, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, was sitting next to him in the creepy secret services car, staring at John out of the corner of his eye. John was not sure if he was high or just…odd. He didn’t seem particularly high, by John’s medical opinion. But he had been staring at John since he set eyes on John approximately, oh, 25 minutes ago. John had identified him among all the junkies by the mess of dark curls and the utterly out-of-place Saville Row suit. John had been eager to try out the whole, “sir, you need to come with me” thing, so he did that, and then Mr. Sherlock Holmes had blinked at him for about a minute, and then went, “oh, of course.” Again, John was disappointed. John wished Mr. Sherlock Holmes would have been snootier so he could have carried out some more secret agent-like actions. 

Mr. Sherlock Holmes was, according to the information John had been given (in an important looking file, to John’s satsifaction) twenty-six years old, younger brother of an important government higher-up (possibly head of MI6 or something impressive like that), Harrow graduate, Cambridge drop-out, and had already seen the inside of a rehab centre once before. He had that posh, well-bred look, with the long forehead, dramatic cheekbones, ridiculous cupid-bow lips, and fair skin. He also looked far too young for his age. If John was a bartender, John would have asked for his ID. 

While John pretended he wasn’t eyeing his charge, his charge in question was not pretending at all, and John accidentally let out a disbelieving huff, possibly tipping the boy off. Damn it. John reminded himself that secret servicemen were supposed to have brilliant poker faces.

“Iraq!” Cried Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

“Huh?” Said John.

Looking rather pink, Mr. Sherlock Holmes continued, “You’ve just returned from Iraq.”

“No,” said John slowly, “Afghanistan.”

Mr. Sherlock Holmes gave a put-out noise, and muttered something under his breath.

“Pardon?”

“No, um, I knew that,” said the boy. (Yes, he was technically four years younger than John, but he could only have himself to blame for having the hairstyle of a twelve year old public school boy.)

John did not know how to answer that, so he practiced his poker face.

A moment later: “Can I borrow your phone?”

John considered that. Then he considered that from the perspective of a secret serviceman.

“No,” said John.

He might have offended Mr. Sherlock Holmes with that. The young man tugged his coat sharply around his person in response, and spent the rest of the drive looking firmly out of his side of the window with his head tilted at an alarming angle.

Anyway, John delivered his charge to a weird rich-people club where the theme was shutting up. John could see the wisdom of that theme, but the decor was a bit much. He silently walked through the club with Mr. Sherlock Holmes and then held the door for him into a chamber where a striking gentleman in a three-piece suit awaited. Mr. Sherlock Holmes tripped over his shoelace as he walked into the room, and John valiantly suppressed a bubbling snicker. Mr. Three-Piece Suit seemed quite offended that his brother (probably) had done something so plebeian as to stumble, and eyed John disapprovingly as though it was his fault.

Mission accomplished, John reported back on his assignment and hoped that next time he would have graduated from the status of secret service newbie and be given something more exciting. There were a couple of days where he hung around in his government-issued bedsit, bored, before he was called in again.

John was told he was being assigned to protect a Very Important Person for an indefinite period. John started wondering if it was an ambassador or a witness, if it was someone he’d seen on the telly. Then he got handed an official looking case file (again). He opened it, and swore aloud.

Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, veteran of Helmand and Kandahar, was being _indefinitely_ assigned to the personal security of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, unemployed resident of 221B Baker Street. 

John cursed God and his designs and his earthly father for letting him watch all those Bond films. 


	2. Mission Protect SH: Day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's first day of mission is, well, bemusing.

Mr. Three Piece Suit was, apparently, someone who shared John’s appreciation for drama. John noted this because he had been accosted on the way to his dreadful new assignment by a muscular bloke who looked a much more convincing secret agent than John, forced into a car with a snooty woman who had a much better poker face than John, and then shown into the empty building opposite 221B Baker Street to meet with his boss, Mr. Holmes Sr., who obviously had a much better sense of flair than John. John wondered despairingly why the fuck they picked him for this in the first place.

Speaking with Mr. Holmes Sr. was fun. The man kept up a veritable creepy-threatening vibe that kept John on his toes, wondering if he was the secret super villain hidden amongst the ranks of Britains’s protectors. As the man embodied the sharp-as-a-whip, air-of-mystery MI6 boss so well, John obligingly took on the part of surly, under-appreciated top agent. He was given a regulation handgun, an encoded mobile phone to communicate with his superior (yes, singular, he reported directly to Mr. Holmes), and a credit card to use for basically anything within reason. John was pleased with all this. Sure, he wasn’t being offered any high-tech gadgets yet, but a free credit card was nothing to sniff at. He was also advised to stay close to Mr. Sherlock Holmes at all times. John nodded, despairing how boring it would be to babysit a rich junkie 24-7. John wondered if the Ministry of Defense knew about this. Surely this was a gross misuse of the country’s resources.

“What is your opinion of Sherlock Holmes?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“Um,” said John, furiously dismissing his first seven responses for something more appropriate. “He’s. Quite fit.”

Yeah, alright, that was excruciatingly _not_ appropriate, but what was he supposed to say? He’d met the man for all of fifty minutes, during which he had required rescuing from a drug den, stared at John for half a car-ride, then tripped over himself in the final five minutes of their acquaintance. 

Mr. Holmes Sr. gave John a scathing glare as if to berate his woeful lack of professionalism. 

“My brother is one of this nation’s greatest security risks, and thus far he has thwarted every effort made to ensure his safety. He destroys cameras installed in his residence, recodes spyware put on his phone, and avoids experienced agents sent to tail him as though they were but common thugs. You are the first security measure that he has in fact consented to. I daresay you shall have your hands full keeping him from harm. I would say more, but I imagine he could express the point far better himself. Should all go well, I shall see you next week, Captain Watson. And do remember those daily reports.”

 

John Watson walked across the street and knocked on the door of 221B, turning Mr. Holmes Sr.’s dramatic monologue over in his head. The junkie little brother sounded like a _smart_ junkie brother, at least. If he had a propensity for trouble, John might even get to use that gun. John was itching to shoot a gun again.

“Captain Watson.” Sherlock Holmes strode up the pavement before the door opened, looking a bit more like an adult in a long, fancy overcoat.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he responded formally, because he had grown used to differentiating between the Misters Holmes in his head. John wondered what Mr. Holmes Sr.’s first name was. He would bet it was something ridiculous and old fashioned to match his waistcoat. Fitzgerald Holmes. Bloomington Holmes. Archibald Holmes. 

Pleasantries were exchanged. The landlady was introduced. John wondered if she was also on Mr. Holmes Sr.’s payroll, until Sherlock said in a stiff, pre-recited sort of way, 

“Mrs Hudson is recently returned from the States. Her husband got arrested for murder in Florida and I was able to help.”

“You got him off being convicted?” John said, surprised.

Sherlock grinned widely, as though he had hoped John would say that.

“Oh no. I ensured it.”

The best part about John’s chat with Mrs Hudson was when she assumed that John was Sherlock’s boyfriend, and John got to say, “Captain John Watson, MI6.” Mrs Hudson, suitably impressed, then started asking a variety of questions that had John worried he might have just violated the Official Secret Act to feel pleased with himself. He escaped speedily up the stairs.

John found Sherlock stood around the living room in a distinctly awkward manner. He moved one stack of scattered papers to join another stack, in no way making it tidier. Then he walked over to the mantelpiece and stuck a penknife in it.

“Well, this could be very nice,” John tried, feeling for the young man’s pitiful lack of social graces. 

“Do you think so?” Sherlock brightened. “Mycroft tried to offer me some mockery of housing that would be sure to be crawling with security cameras and I have no desire for him to satisfy his voyeuristic tendencies on me when he already has the entire country’s CCTV cameras to wank off to. That is, ah, I thought we might be more comfortable here.” He blushed suddenly. “And when I say we, I do mean you and I as separate entities.”

This entire speech was delivered so rapidly John did not have the processing time to suppress a snort of laughter. Sherlock stared at him as though he had never seen such a curious phenomenon, which sobered John up quickly. _Stay professional_ , he advised himself.

“Right,” John said. “Yeah.”

What was the protocol for interaction with young, attractive men you were living with in a professional capacity? John wished fervently for a handbook. Everything he could say seemed inappropriate, so he cast around, cackling internally. _Mycroft Holmes?_ That was it, honestly. Better than anything he could come up with.

“Dinner?” Said Sherlock suddenly.

“What?” John blinked, still caught up in his internal amusement at posh and unnecessary names. 

“It’s,” Sherlock checked his phone, “a socially appropriate time to eat. Would you like to? Eat. With me.”

“Oh! Yeah! Of course. I kind of have to do everything with you, really, for your safety.”

Sherlock was putting on his coat and scarf, looking rather flushed again. He had extraordinarily fair skin, so clear and unblemished that all John’s ex girlfriends would be jealous. They headed down and out. 

They went to this Italian restaurant whose owner Sherlock had saved from a life sentence. He was a very nice bloke and offered cheerfully to bring candles and wine for their romantic date. John was beginning to sense a theme. Two themes, actually. What exactly was it that Sherlock does, for god’s sake? And, well, he was gay, then? Armed with these potential topics, John waded into the shark-infested rivers of the small talk. 

“So your job is…wandering around, giving a hand to people who get into trouble with the law?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly. “I also occasionally do so from the comfort of my living room.” 

“How does that work?”

“I’m a consulting detective.” Sherlock then explained what sounded like a ridiculous, made up job thought up by a boy too rich to need to worry about a real job.

John tried to keep the skepticism out of his expression, but evidently he failed, because Sherlock scowled, and announced in sharp, halting sentences, “I know that you’re a surgeon as well as a soldier. You were in Afghanistan for three years. You were offered this position after exceptional performance in the RAMC. You have a sibling, but you’re not close, you’re not close to any of your family. You’re idealistic but pragmatic, dependable in stressful situations, with a liking for danger.” 

Somehow as Sherlock talked, he and John had leaned closer towards each other. John noticed this as his heart rate spiked and he carefully pulled himself back.

“You read my file.”

“I read you.”

The pause that followed was prickly. It was the kind of buzzing unease that John usually relished, because it was generally followed by a really great shag.

“Impressive stuff. Is this how you get blokes, then?” John ventured.

“I don’t, generally, ‘get blokes,’” said Sherlock, darting a glance at John before staring out of the window.

“Oh! Sorry. Girls?”

“ _No._ Not my area.”

John unfortunately forgot to censor himself as he blurted out, “Are you a -”

“Married to my work.”

“- virgin?”

Well done there, John told himself, mentally picturing his previous commander yelling at him, spittle flying. Real smooth. The ability to chat people up without sounding like an utter bellend must shrivel up with lack of practice.

“Right, fair play. How’s that marriage going then?”

“I’ll introduce you to it after dinner, if you’re amenable.”


	3. Mission Protect SH: Day 1.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go searching for crime, and crime, indeed, finds them.

“What are we doing, again?”

“We’re looking for a case, John. Where there are people there is crime.”

“So we’re going to hang about until we see one? Does that work well for you?”

“You’d be surprised.”

It was a nippy January evening and after three glasses of wine Sherlock Holmes was pleasantly flushed, eyes shining, curls tousled, exhaling a puff of white cloud with each word. John Watson, on the other hand, was much better at holding his drink, and thus was quite unaffected by his three glasses of wine. Therefore, with his unimpaired intellect, he sussed that this did not much resemble Work and was much more like a Date. Very dangerous, that. Every time he glanced at the tall posh boy walking beside him, the little policeman in his head keeping John on the straight and narrow got clocked in the head by a giant inflatable dick. Metaphorically, of course. John’s brain was not overly populated with inflatable penises.

After their Romantic Dinner, Sherlock had hailed a cab and brought them to Piccadilly Circus, where they were now surfing the evening crowds. They’d been walking for a few minutes now in companionable silence and John was thinking that he could really rather get used to this. Yeah. Getting paid to hang out with a pretty boy who was admittedly a little odd, but charmingly so. While carrying a gun. Everything John wanted in life, really.

“Where do we look for a good one, then?” John asked. “Are we going to pop into Primark for an extra large?”

“We could, possibly. Do murderers frequent ‘Primark', to your knowledge?” Sherlock pronounced ‘Primark' with more disgust than he said ‘murderer’, as though that instead ought to be the one locked up for as long as possible.

“Yeah, absolutely,” John said. “It’s well known that murderers like a good deal and can’t resist anything 70% off.”

“Well, let’s check it out then.” Sherlock veered off the street into the brightly lit clothing store.

Sherlock looked about as out of place in Primark as he did in the drug den. He swanned about in that probably 5000 quid coat, sneering down his nose at everyone in the store like a cartoon character. 

John picked up a maroon shirt. “Look, Sherlock. Murderer’s favourite.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Maroon doesn’t hide blood stains nearly as well as black. A common misconception that I wouldn’t expect you to buy into, Captain.”

“Alright. What about this?” John pointed at some jeans that were decorated with multicoloured paint splashes.

“No, but I wouldn’t mind if someone murdered the designer.”

A busty blonde woman who had been eyeing the jeans gave Sherlock an indignant look. 

“They don’t suit your colouring at all,” Sherlock told her. “And maybe call your husband, he’s with his mistress right now.”

The blonde woman turned red in the face and John maneuvered Sherlock from the store quickly before there was a shit show.

“Is this what you do?” John giggled, steering Sherlock by the arm. “No wonder you need an armed escort.”

“People never appreciate when I tell them the truth,” Sherlock said sulkily. “People are idiots.”

“Oi, we have feelings.”

“Feelings.” Sherlock snorted. “I detest feelings.”

“Me too, mate,” John agreed idly, turning to stare as he realised the CCTV camera they had just passed was turning on its stand to aim at them for as long as possible.

“Yes, your employer is keeping an eye on us. Don’t feel bad about it, he has trust issues.”

“He does seem the suspicious type,” said John. “So, uh, he said that you used to destroy all the surveillance he puts on you?”

“I don’t appreciate him poking his big nose into my business.”

“That’s fair. So uh, why me then?”

Sherlock turned even pinker than before. He cleared his throat, and said, “You’re…not a complete idiot.”

“Awww,” said John, snickering. “You sure know how to make a bloke feel special.” 

Sherlock looked ahead, blushing intensely. John thought he’d never seen anything cuter in his life. 

“So, no good criminals out shopping today?”

“Not so far. About two dozen affairs and three kleptomaniacs. Very boring. We might as well head back.”

“Tough pickings. Maybe something will pop up when you’re not looking.”

 

_Forty minutes later_

 

Stuffed into the trunk of a Land Rover, John wondered if he was going to be fired.

“Cheers, God,” John said as he spat out the rag in his mouth. “Sherlock? You okay?”

Yeah. They’d gotten kidnapped. As if there wasn’t enough irony in the world. While walking back to Baker Street, the two of them had been pounced on by five men in ski masks (really?) and taken by surprise. John had a bump on his head from being knocked out cold, but he had just presently come to. Sherlock was crammed up against John, and John began working on freeing his hands so he could check the state of his charge. 

The SUV hit a sharp turn, causing inertia to throw Sherlock heavily against John’s front. As they both had their hands tied behind their backs, this had the unfortunate effect of causing Sherlock to briefly grope John’s crotch. John grinned good-naturedly, turning his attention back to trying to break his own zip ties.

Until Sherlock gave him another cheeky little grope.

John burst out laughing, simultaneously finding a burst of strength to snap his zip ties. He cheered inwardly at his renewed freedom of limbs. Then he made use of it by grabbing Sherlock’s arse in retaliation.

John whispered, “Seriously? Now?”

Sherlock was silent for a beat before he started giggling as well. Ridiculous, John thought, set off again, biting Sherlock’s coat to muffle his mirth. (Wouldn’t do to have the thugs think they were up to something.) Crammed into some kidnapper’s trunk, finding it really fucking funny. They were both nuts.

Recovering presently, Sherlock said, “Yes, well. This happens quite often. Excuse me if I’m not impressed.”

“What sort of life do you lead?” John snorted, busily untying Sherlock as well. 

“Did you think you were assigned to protect me from kitchen fires and domestic violence?”

“I thought I was supposed to stop you running off to do drugs.”

“This is more fun, isn’t it?”

“Fun? We’ve been kidnapped.”

“I thought you might be eager to show off in your area of expertise. Or is that gun in your pocket just for show?”

“Oh, nothing in my trousers is for show,” John quipped, carefully running his fingers over Sherlock’s head to check for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

“Mild concussion, nothing to worry about. I expect you have one to match.”

“Yeah. I’m not doing a very good job of protecting you, am I?”

“Please. I can take care of myself just fine. I could tell you now, for instance, that our kidnappers are the members of the East London gang whose core members I apprehended for drug trafficking four days ago, and that they have made the unimaginative choice of driving us to the bank of the Thames, where they hope to drown us.”

“They’re gonna get a bit of a surprise, then. Wait. Four days ago is when I rescued you from that drug den.”

“ _Rescued?_ I was undercover. I didn’t need rescuing. You interrupted my case at the behest of my unnecessarily meddling brother.”

“You could have told me that!”

“And you would have listened, would you? You wouldn’t even let me borrow your phone.”

“Yeah, because you stared at me for thirty minutes straight! What was that about?”

Sherlock was suspiciously silent.

Feeling victorious, John said, “Were you taken in by my dashing good looks?”

“I was in my mind palace,” Sherlock finally said, sulkily.

“Mind palace?” John chortled. “Is that what you public school types call wank banks?”

Sherlock did not reply, and John was seized with a second of panic. That was too far, wasn’t it? Him and his flirty mouth. Then he heard the doors slam, and belatedly realised that the SUV had stopped. He held his breath and reached for his gun.

Everything happened very fast. The moment the trunk was opened, Sherlock shot out a leg and their captor let out a howl of agony specific to a man with groin injury. John clambered out, clocked him on the head with his gun, and gave the same to another idiot on the backstroke. Sherlock stood up behind him.

“Stay back!” John yelled, in full soldier mode.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock replied, and charged at the nearest thug before he could pull out his own gun.

“For fuck’s sake!” John trained his gun on the struggling pair, as did the two remaining thugs. 

_Amateurs,_ John thought, keeping one eye on the two of them in case they decided to smarten up and aim at John instead. They did not recover from their lapse in intelligence, so John took advantage of a momentary flip to shoot the thug struggling with Sherlock in the leg.

The thug yelled loudly. That seemed to do it for the remaining two, who shared a look and took off running as fast as they could.

Sherlock brushed himself off and stood up, eyeing the blood stain on his coat with a grimace. 

“What part of ‘stay back’ sounds like ‘charge at a dangerous armed criminal?” John demanded. “Did I stutter?”

“He’s hardly dangerous. He has a weak right arm, more brawn than brains. That thing you did was…rather good, though.”

John grinned. He was rather proud of his aim.

“Shall we call the police for these sad buggers, then?”

“They’re already on their way.”

“Pity those two got away.”

“I’m sure even Scotland Yard would be able to track down Richard Crawford of Greenwich and his friend, Big D, identifiable by the dragon tattoo spanning his entire left arm.”

Sherlock held up a ragged looking driver’s license.

“How?” John shook his head in amazement.

“Stole the license off him while he was tying me up,” Sherlock said, shrugging. “And I could hear them talking to each other in the car. They were really a rather miserable lot. We were just distracted.”

“You are brilliant,” said John.

Sherlock looked at him, startled, a pink blush creeping into his cheeks. John caught his gaze and just couldn’t stop staring, heart thudding away, feeling as though all the fibres of the universe were pulling him towards the taller man. John had almost made up his mind to just fucking go with it when Sherlock harshly jerked his gaze away. John followed his gaze to see that a police car had just pulled up. 

“Hello, Sergeant.”

“Hello, Sherlock,” said the policeman dryly. “We meet again."

"John, this is Sergeant Lestrade, my colleague.”

“We’re not colleagues.”

“I assist him on his cases.”

“He keeps turning up at my crime scenes and refusing to leave.”

John shook Lestrade’s hand solemnly. “Captain John Watson, MI6.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys! I know it's been ages. I'm all tied up with graduation stuff. Can't promise very steady updates at the moment, but I do love your feedback! Thanks so much!


End file.
